


*o * * 






'oV 









•- V.^ •< 






V '.».-.' V 






Kfc 



Q~ * 













































» ^ 






v<* . ...."*-* 









r. /^ 





















T« a 






^ *'TTr«' a 




4* ..'.*?. 







IT- ^*" •' 















V 



V 









\^ 



*** 











° *< 



s* ..-•. 










POEMS 



FRANKLIN W. FISH. 






c^lX 



NEW HAVEN : 
THOMAS H. PEASE. 

1855. 






Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year ISoo, 

BY FRANKLIN W. FISH, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 

District of Connecticut. 



BOSTON. 

DtTTTON AND WEXTNVORTH, PEEfTERS, 

37 Con°Tess Street. 



W. C. Wetmore, Esq. 

My Dear Friend, 

Some few years ago it suited " the humor of my 

brain" to subscribe my name to a small volume of fugitive pieces, 

of which it then pleased the critics to speak well, and somewhat 

encouragingly, and for which I tender them my most hearty thanks. 

To my Header, (if any such there be,) I have simply to say, that I 

am a plain fellow, with but little pretension to what is commonly 

styled genius, and that I have put forth the within fugitives during 

the stray hours of a student's life. To my brother bards, I would 

state, in as few words as possible, that I have entered their ranks 

quietly, and shall as quietly leave them when the notion shall seize 

me; and that the "thousand and one poets of America," (vide Dr. 

Griswold,) need give themselves no more uneasiness than do the 

magnificent warblers of the forest because a little wren chooses to 

sit on a neighboring fence and chirp with them. Perhaps you have 

some claims upon me for your disinterested friendship, but there is 

one to whom I owe more, and it is to his memory that I dedicate 

these lines — To Preserved Fish, Esq. of New York, my earliest 

and best friend. You was with him but a few hours before he died, 

and no one knows better than yourself the reason of this dedication. 

I remain truly Yours, etc., 

FRANKLIN W. FISH. 
New Haven, 1855. 



CONTENTS. 



The Present Age, 9 

I would Forget, 51 

The Gap of Dunloe, 54 

Charity, 56 

" My hearty, no you don't/' 57 

TheRuine, 60 

The Old Gray Harper, 65 

Ye Two Mansions, 68 

Rest, 71 

Unrest, 74 

Death hath no Sting, 78 

From the Arabic, 81 

Angel Voices, 83 

" There's a Breeze on the Ocean," 86 

Bacchantic, 89 

Love's fondest Vows are Song, 92 

" Ghell Gohnnum Ghell," a Turkish Serenade, 93 

The Dear Ones at Home, 95 

Oh ! turn away that sad, pale face, 97 

Once more we meet, 98 

Faith, 100 

Prometheus, 103 

Cogitationes de temporibus, 106 

Memories, 114 

Epilogue, 119 



A Poet 1 

Aye, a Poet, sir ! fair-haired 
And dreamy-eyed, with heart as wayward as 
The idle wind, and lip moist with the dews 
That fall by Helicon ! 

Nay ! prythee peace ! 
I know the race. Can rhyming fill the purse, 
Build empires up, prop falling thrones, that Kings 
Must have them ever at the royal side, 
And Sages bend their learned heads to hear 
What these crazed Dreamers say ? Bid him depart, 
I wot not of him. 



THE PRESENT AGE. 



" Hail muse et cetera," wrote Byron once ; 
" Oh muse," reechoes every rhyming dunce — 
Now here, now there, to every wooer's prayer, 
This " universal muse " goes everywhere. 
Let amatory poets sing of " loves," 
And in soft lyrics glorify the " doves ;" 
Let labored sentences prolong the verse 
That moral preachers ever must rehearse, 
Filled with stiff phrases, countless as the sand, 
Which few will read, and no one understand : 
Let warlike bards still eulogize the fame 
" Of wide-spread " conquest and the " soldier's name ;" 
l 



10 

Let vicious warblers chirp their vilest songs, 
And gild with poetry the foulest wrongs, 
With golden food their hunger to assuage : 
I sing the manners of the "Present Age." 
I sing of follies such as all may see, 
Nonsense, delusion, and chicanery. 
Not that our follies are more strange and new, 
Not that our manners are more wondrous too ; 
Not that we've more of earth and less of ore 
Than other ages that have gone before ; 
Not that our sages are less wise than theirs, 
Nor we less civilized, tho' " bulls and bears " 
Prowl in " the street" and leave their native wood- 
To serve their brothers for their pockets' good ; 
Not that our parsons, over quibblings nice, 
Offer to heaven less welcome sacrifice ; 
Not that our lawyers less prolific are 
Than when Justinian graced the Roman bar ; 
Not that their " Story" is a different one 
From what we read in " Coke on Littleton ;" 
Not that their " pleadings " lack at all of sense, 
Or " Greenleaf " gives the strangest " evidence ;" 



11 



Not that our poets sing less sweet than those, 
Although they warble out " unnumbered woes ;" 
Not unto " Greece," but unto those that hear 
The winged horse tortured snorting in the rear ; — 
But I have ta'en this subject for my rhyme, 
The " Present Age," the nearest to our time. 

Then let us mark what follies we discern, 

Perchance to pity and mayhap to learn, 

For faults and follies, when they once begin, 

By slow degrees lead on to crime and sin ; 

By slow degrees the child essays to walk, 

By slow degrees the infant learns to talk, 

By slow degrees the friend becomes a foe, 

By slow degrees enjoyment turns to woe — 

A day may cloud the hopes to which we cling ; 

A week may change a beggar to a king ; 

A month may circle in its little span, 

And turn a virgin to a courtezan. 

Small sorrows make up life, small joys, small pains, 

Small hopes, small fears, small losses and small gains, 



12 

One step too much turns pleasure to a vice ; 

(Life teaches these discriminations nice,) 

We see in others what ourselves would do, 

We learn to follow and avoid them too. 

My neighbor's child, a little baby-boy, 

Once took the candle for a glittering toy, 

Some pretty bauble fit to aid his plays, 

And burnt his finger catching at the blaze. 

And Anthon tells us that " Icarus " once 

While vainly striving, like a silly dunce, 

To reach the sun, and be with glory crowned, 

Scorched his poor wings, and in the sea was drowned. 

These teach two lessons, one, " that fire's hot ;" 

The other, " donH go where you are asked not." 

Now we should mark where others rise or fall, 

Or else experience is no good at all ; 

So we should learn that virtue brings content, 

And vice inflicts on vice its punishment. 

What is contentment ? ' Tis to learn to live, 

And take with gladness all that fate may give ; 

It hallows labor, sanctifies our toil, 

And makes the Tiller, monarch of the soil. 



13 



By labor statesmen rule, and poets sing, 

The curse entailed on beggar and on king — 

The idler labors in his idleness, 

The dreamer labors in his dreaminess, 

The worker labors in his daily care, 

' Tis labor here, and labor everywhere. 

But when by struggles we attain to fame, 

And win the empty " something of a name ;" 

When we by toiling gain some earthly crown 

Of gold, reward, or glory, or renown — 

By whatsoever appellation called, 

It hides too oft a weary head and bald. 

Envy, foul slander and rancorous hate 

Eternal handmaids on true greatness wait. 

That's no new axiom ; there's nothing new 

Since Homer chaunted, or Achilles slew. 

Mrjviv asictde starts Homeric verse, 

Parent of epics, longer and much worse. 

Ten thousand bards have sung unnumbered songs 

In vain endeavor to make rights of wrongs ; 

Ten thousand laureates have gilded war, 

Still Pat cries " bloody murder" as before. 



14 



In this our age, when novelty is rife, 

And wonders meet us at each step in life ; 

When every day, the older that we grow, 

We see some new thing, or some strange one know ; 

When virtue holds no more her sovereign sway ; 

When honor's laws no longer men obey ; 

When bungling statesmen leave us in the lurch, 

And fashion reigns in theatre and church ; 

When ladies (pray, my friends, don't think it hard 

If I should strike sometimes within the guard, 

For he that fain would mend the fault he shows 

May oft in kindness strike unwelcome blows. 

Our friend the Dr. that to cure us strives 

By physic physics us out of our lives. 

You know when first " snail-like " you crept to school, 

And learned to read, write, speak, and act by rule, 

The master taught you first your ABC, 

Then by the rule of one, the rule of three — 

And showed some luckless urchin how to search 

For vulgar fractions in a piece of birch — 

Impressed the lesson " never to be slack," 

By sundry blows inflicted on his back, 



15 



Till he became a lawyer, doctor, priest, 

Or a good blacksmith, latest but not least. 

Or else, perchance, some matron wise and stern, 

Sage and sagacious, anxious you should learn 

The wholesome doctrine that " young girls are girls," 

And shy indeed of ribbons, beaux and curls : 

To you forbids sly meetings at the door, 

And wrongs your beau by calling him a bore. 

So you, fair maid, become a worthy child, 

Not gravely sad, nor hoydenishly wild. 

Thus boy or maid earn dearly in the strife 

The honest title of " true man or wife ;") 

When ladies are so vexed with learning's curse 

Their very babies cry indeed in verse ; 

When housewives leave the duster and the broom 

To sit like Sapphos in a lecture room ; 

When fast young men, without a reck or heed, 

Drive to dishonor at 2.40 speed ; 

When homely worth the simple maids forsake, 

To hold sweet converse with a handsome rake ; 

When, if you're rich tho' brainless, you can pass, 

And gold's the lion's -skin that hides the ass ; — 



16 

Then why care we ? The miser heaps his store 

Of yellow lucre, and locks np the door — 

Of buried talents makes an idle boast, 

Fingers them over and gives up the ghost ; 

His heir receives the key — unlocks the chest, 

And common reason telleth all the rest. 

When Cross and Crescent join one common cause, 

Firm allied powers in this worst of wars ; 

When Christ and Mahomet joint watchwords are, 

And Christian England fights a Christian Czar — 

We gaze in silence on their bloody work, 

Nor care which whips, the Russian or the Turk. 

Tumultuous war may raise her red right hand, 

May scourge and desolate the Othman land ; 

Still what care we, if rivals at Galatz 

Eat up each other, like Kilkenny cats. 

Like these famed animals, in History shrined, 

Each other eat, and leave a tale behind. 

For Freedom's fire may yet with splendor burn, 

The exiled goddess may once more return, 

May tread once more the classic grounds of Greece, 

May go, like Jason, to the Chersonese, 



17 



May cross the Danube's shores and roll along 

To fair-skyed Italy, the land of song ; 

May kindle up her beacon lights, where she 

Mustered her thousands once in Hungary ; 

Reanimate the sluggish sons of France 

Now sleeping soundly in despotic trance ; 

May send her war-cry from St. Peter's dome, 

And chase those bloodhounds from the streets of Rome. 

Is Freedom dead, or does she only sleep ? 

Go forth, ye Reapers, in God's field to reap — 

The grain is ripe, the harvest must come in, 

Freedom goes foremost, let the war begin ! 

Far in the East her bright star shall arise, 

The dawn of day must break in Eastern skies ; 

And when the Night shall call ye all to rest, 

The sun shall sink forever in the West, 

Encircling earth and lighting sea and sky, 

In this our land at last shall Freedom die. 

And yet again we'll hear her voice sublime 

Reechoing back the war-cry of old time. 



18 

Now God be praised ! on Bunker's Hill 

The sturdy farmers crowd, 
No heart through all the lengthened lines 

By servile fear is bowed. 
Nerved for the fight in Freedom's might, 

Each heart in manhood proud. 



The worthy sons of Pilgrim sires 

Are gathering thick and fast ; 
They hear the rattling kettle drum, 

The clanging trumpet's blast, 
And towards their homes on Charlestown heights 

One loving look they cast. 



" Go, go, my child," the old man said, 
" And battle long and well, 

Then if thy limb be torn from limb 
By cruel shot or shell, 

Be this thy epitaph, my boy, 
On Bunker's Hill he fell!" 



19 

" Go, go !" the mother said, and girt 

The knapsack on his back ; 
" Go ! meet the foe as clansman true, 

Nor let thy hand be slack, 
And strike for those that love thee well, 

But never turn thy back L" 



" Go, go !" the pale young wife replied, 

"Look on thy baby-son, 
Go, free his hands from tyrant chains, 

And it were nobly done ; 
Go, go !" — and, while she wiped the tear, 

Reached down her husband's gun. 



The storm swept o'er that young girl's heart 

As winds sweep o'er the lyre, 
Her once mild eye shot proudly out 

What flint and steel strike — fire. 
" And if you fall, this lisping babe 

May yet revenge his sire." 



20 

The maiden bid her lover go, 
From cottage and from hall, 

From mountain, heath, and inland moor, 
She heard her country call, 

" Go, go, and if you shall be slain, 
Be buried where you fall." 



"Fall with your eye still bent on heaven, 

Nor craven fear to die." 
With one kiss on her trembling lip, 

One tear-drop in his eye, 
The lover bids that gallant girl 

His proudest, last good bye." 



And more and more they muster now, 
Those sturdy men and true ; 

The farmer leaves the half-turned sod, 
The cobbler leaves the shoe, 

The blacksmith quits the fiery forge, 
Their daring deeds to do. 



21 

The farmer leaves his wife to drive 

The cattle to the brook, 
Unwatched the herds neglected rove 

Adown the Contoocook, 
Or graze on Holyoke's grassy sides, 

And in the shady nook. 



The little child in wonder sees 
The rusty flint-lock there, 

The grey-haired father bids his boy 
The glorious conflict share ; 

The mother with a blessing parts, 
The young wife with a prayer. 



" My grandsire fought at Marston-moor," 

I heard a yeoman say, 
" And many a knave of foulest blood 

This good broadsword did slay, 
And I will fight as he did fight, 

Or perish here to-day S" 



22 

" Shall we, who sprung from Pilgrim stock, 

Disgrace our loyal sires ? 
Shall we yield to the vassal serfs 

That traitor Brunswick hires ? 
Strike ! brothers, if ye would be free, 

And keep your household fires !" 



" I ken no man that hears my voice, 
Shrinks back in fear to-day, 

I ken no heart is filled with awe, 
Or trembles in dismay ; 

I ken no arm with iron nerve 
Lacks strength for the affray." 



" Shame on the coward, poltroon heart, 
That feels the least affright — 

Go ! let him hide him where he may, 
And keep him from our sight — 

But blessings on all true-born souls, 
And God defend the right!" 



23 

" Hark ! hark ! the foe ! the Saxon comes, 
Booms out the dread-mouthed gun, 

Their muskets glisten in the air, 
Like waves beneath the sun ; 

Strike ! if ye would be freemen, strike ! 
Or perish every one." 



Each bosom breathed a prayer to Him 
Who rules the tide of war, 

To battle for his Israel's cause, 
As he had done before — 

To nerve the arm upraised to strike 
For man's supremest law. 



Well may we read " revenge or death " 
Stamped on each close-knit brow — 

In each calm eye we well may see 
There is no boys' play now ; 

They vowed they would be freemen, and 
They come to keep their vow. 



24 

Ah ! well they fought and nobly died ; 

And though the shout is still, 
That reached the preacher in his desk, 

The fisher' by the rill,— 
The noblest line e'er carved on stone, 

Is "Killed at Bunker's Hill." 



What shall we say, when o'er our deluged land 
The vilest books are sown with plenteous hand — 
When Yankee presses teem with foreign verse, 
The bane of morals and the country's curse — 
When Yankee publishers keep on their shelves 
Such trash and nonsense — save us from ourselves. 
Who reads a native book ? who writes one, pray ? 
That is a question asked us every day. 
Are not the heroes chosen from abroad, 
Some "lovely lady," or some scapegrace "lord?" 
Muit every landscape be a " woody park," 
And every bird a nightingale or lark ? 
Must every flower that blossoms on the lea 
A " perfect pattern of a daisy " be ? 



25 

Well may each worn-out reader cry " Enough ! 

In mercy spare us more such love-sick stuff." 

Has not our native land as bright a sun, 

As gladsome fields for him to shine upon, 

And brooks that sing as sweet and gay a song 

To the green banks their waters glide along ? 

Or have our warblers in each winsome scene 

Never yet learned to chirp " God save the Queen !" 

The plainest bird that broods in wood or vale, 

Like Philomela, turns a nightingale. 

The cawing crow's a raven or a rook, 

Strange transformation done in printed book. 

'Tis sad, 'tis shameful, but, alas ! 'tis true, 

We leave our Irving for a Eugene Sue. 

French novels charm us and French wines allure, 

Until our minds become a common sewer. 

Gloat o'er these pictured vices, if you choose, 

But really Cooper's worth a hundred sous. 

French ballet dancers whirl upon the stage, 

To add more folly to the " Present Age." 

The mind will sicken and the cancer feed, 

Till we become poor profligates indeed. 



26 



The blushing maiden, poisoned as she reads, 
(For often Fiction sows the worst of seeds,) 
Receives, from glowing words she would not name, 
The loss of modesty or sense of shame. 
Th' ingenuous youth that shuns the haunts of sin 
As something awful, drinks the poison in ; 
Till, step by step, his honesty is lost, 
And vice is pandered — never count the cost. 
His mind, like Cretan wax, the impression takes, 
Sleeps in the vice, and in dishonor wakes. 
" Hot Corn," shame pictured, and a thousand such, 
You'll burn your ringers surely if you touch. 
Thus on the yielding mind of simple youth 
Falsehood is printed in the place of truth. 
False views of life — false views of right and wrong- 
Ungentle love, bad sermon, and worse song. 
Then we condemn the grown-up boys that do 
The very vices we first taught them to. 
Why prate of freedom ? eulogize our home, 
Our statesmen Catos, and our country Rome ! 
Why say our nation must be free and pure, 
When foreign authors form our literature ? 



27 

The honest hand, that guides an honest pen, 
And shows their vices to its fellow men, 
Must starve in silence — while from every clime 
These vicious scribblers consecrate our crime. 
But when once more we triumph over wrong, 
That has held sway too often and too long ; 
When gilded sin no longer shall invite, 
And crime detested hides him from our sight ; 
When lines are writ, no maidens blush to read, 
And native books for native hearths decreed, 
The bird of song to heaven shall take her flight, 
And sing in safety 'neath the " copy-right," 



Next to society ! where oft we see 
The Nabob boasting of his pedigree. 
Who seeks a friend as jockeys seek a horse, 
" Who was his sire ?" then, as a thing of course, 
Exclaims " he's worthy of the best in town, 
Sired by Mr. — darned by Mrs. — Brown." 
Shame ! shame indeed in these enlightened days, 
When birth or fortune give to men their praise. 



28 



There was a time, e'er folly's reign began, 

When worth alone stamped glory on a man, 

When honest poverty went hand in hand 

With kingly virtue, worthy of command. 

" Loquitur bene stultus interdum," 

Or, in plain English, " sense from fools may come." 

The beggar you condemn to low disgrace, 

If clothed in silks, might well your parlor grace ; 

The very serf that sweeps your office floor, 

May boast his line of ancestors a score. 

Not blood alone makes mankind kin, 
The world without, the soul within ; 
The self-same hopes, the self-same fears, 
Sorrows and trials, joys and tears, 
These are the bases where God rears 

His lineage. 
To cherish hopes alike for fame, 
To toil thro' dangers here the same, 
To battle oft with doubt or sin, 
Together triumph, and you win 

One heritage. 



29 

'Tis vain to prate of kin or kind, 
There is no brotherhood but mind. 

Children of Labor, tho' of different soil, 
Allied in feeling, tho' unlike by birth, 

We wring out from old Time a name by toil, 
Delving like miners in the dismal earth. 

The heart that feels for others' woes, 
When others toil, disdains repose — 
Shunning the wanton couch of ease, 
And daring danger and disease, 
That it may Truth's bright banner seize 

And bear above. 
To feel, to know, to hear, to see — 
Alike in words and deeds to be — 
Alike in pleasure, like in pains, 
Binds nerve to nerve, and veins to veins, 

Firmer than love ; 
Grief joiheth hearts, and pain and toil 
Knit life to life, and not the soil. 



30 

The ones united here forever, 

Whom threatening cannot swerve nor sever ; 

The hearts that suffering cannot break, 

Nor hate annoy, nor anger shake, 

That dare the world for honor's sake, 

Nor look behind ; 
That bear before th' astonished world 
Truth's heaven-hued banner high unfurled, 
That send their clarion-shout on high, 
" On, brothers, on ! we do or die," 

Are kin and kind. 
Remote in clime, unlinked by blood, 
This! this is man's best brotherhood. 

Our native land should claim our prayers, 
Our native land demands our cares ; 
Nor prince that wears a jewelled crown, 
Nor mitred priest with surplice gown, 
Nor lord, nor king, nor royal clown, 

To rule us ever ; 
But one broad empire, fair and great, 
United nations, State with State, 



31 

Out union first, our union last, 
To stem the gale, the storm, the blast, 
From Madawaska's rippling rills, 
To Sacramento's golden hills, 

One land forever. 
The land our patriot fathers trod — 
One home, one country, and one God. 

There was a time — (God help the present one, 
When youth and manhood both to folly run ; 
When now reversing what they used to do, 
Men reach their dotage at scarce thirty-two.) 
There was a time when honest statesmen ruled, 
Men whom long study and deep thought had schooled- 
Fit leaders they, with genial worth replete, 
And judges fitted for the judgment seat. 
Who make a country's glory or her doom ? 
Men of the plow, the anvil and the loom — 
Perchance unmarked, unheeded, and unknown, 
They move through life unfriended and alone, 
Unblessed of kin, save God's eternal laws, 
No censure strikes them and no threatening awes. 



32 

Untrained to move in Faction's giddy school, 
Or play the knave, the hypocrite or fool, 
They live unloved, yet kindly Fate bestows 
Immortal armor against mortal woes. 
I love the man that speaks from heart sincere — 
Whate'er his creed, that man I must revere ; 
His noble soul to one great cause he gives, 
The people prosper when the good man lives. 

Awhile then let me lay the lash aside 
To lend one offering to a nation's pride — 
One humble tribute to a hero fled, 
One word in memory of the noble dead. 
For not in war alone are heroes born, 
'Mid shattered frames and limbs asunder torn ; 
When the red sabre cuts its bloody way 
In horrid carnage through the fierce affray ; 
Not when the booming gun proclaims afar 
The unwelcome tidings of terrific war — 
But when Death comes as the dark night cornea on, 
And inch by inch the helpless wreck goes down ; 
When frenzied mothers clasp the drowning child, 
And fathers tremble at the waters wild ; 



33 

When the young husband bends above his wife, 

And sends one agonizing prayer for life ; 

When strong hearts quiver as th' engulphing sea 

Bears them on slowly to eternity ; 

When the last hope has left them, with a prayer 

Ne'er to be finished by the doomed ones there — 

The lips half opened, and the prayer half said, 

One shriek, one groan, one bubble — they are dead. 

Down the dark waters they forever sleep, 

Till God's command, " Give up thy dead, oh Deep." 

Down the dark waters, where mermaidens dress 

With rosy coral every sea-green tress. 

One brow ne'er blanched, but steadfast there he stood, 

Unmoved by danger, reckless of the flood — 

Well may we pause to shed a heartfelt tear 

O'er that young sleeper on his watery bier. 

For him I twine a wreath, though poor it be, 

For him, one offering to his memory. 

With grief we speak of him, and yet with joy 

Point to young Holland, generous, noble boy. 

And thou, my friend ! could aught of mine return 

Thy form familiar to the hearts that yearn ; 



34 



Could I recall thee ! gladly would I give 
One half my sum of years, to bid thee live. 
Kind to the orphaned heart that came to thee, 
In youth discerning what the man might be. 
Farewell! farewell! be censure hushed in praise, 
When saddened memory turns to other days. 



Now comes the drama ; ah, what can we say 
In praise of playing that is merely play ? 
Neglected drama — doomed too oft to see 
Thyself traduced by shameless blasphemy. 
Oh injured muse ! where are thy gems of wit — 
Not this poor pittance to amuse a pit — 
Where are the sentences men loved to hear 
When Siddons spake them to the listening ear ? 
Where are the lines our feelings to control 
Where glorious Kemble centred all his soul ? 
Oh, blood and thunder! nightly must we see 
Such horrid libel, Shakespeare, upon thee ! 
Maimed, mangled, murdered, and without a cause, 
Down comes the house in torrents of applause ; 



35 

From pit to gallery th' enraptured crowd 

Proclaim their joy in acclamations loud. 

No longer " Richard " seen, we hear the play 

And watch the "first tragedian of the day ;" 

No Hamlet eulogizes Yorick's hones, 

But he becomes " th' immortal Mr. Jones ;" 

He acts not Hamlet, Hamlet acteth him, 

And every hero is but Jack or Jim. 

Then we've such playwrights that aid these play- wrongs 

Nightly to torture sense in senseless songs. 

Pile line on line, till cantos five they get, 

And beat old Homer in each epithet. 

" Dark-mantled night with ever-burning stars," 

" Pale-visaged moons that peer through cloudy bars." 

Their play-bills say, " Tomorrow we rehearse 

The Red Hot Ashpan, or the Tinker's Curse ; 

A drama filled with scenes of high renown, 

And written by a gentleman of town." 

Thus are we fallen, till we note the stage 

As one great folly of the Present Age. 



36 



Then we've our ballad bards from every region, 

Songs without number, songsters more than legion, 

That daily vex us with the tale of woes 

That " Juliets " hear from sighing " Romeos." 

Tape leaves the counter, Chip forsakes the plane, 

With brains that labor in poetic pain — 

And Snip pours out his symphonies profuse, 

Whose alma mater is a " mother goose." 

These are the ones that praise the " sylvan scenes ' 

In measured lyrics in the " magazines " — 

Eschew the brains that common cobblers bless 

In weakly lines that choke the daily press, 

And mourn in numbers, scarcely fit to see, 

" Lines to a slaughtered rat by X. Y. Z" 

Shades of great Homer, Horace, Shakespeare sigh, 

O'er tortured song, condemed each day to die. 

Ye gods ! that sit on high Olympus' hill, 

Shake your dread locks, and bid these bards be still ! 

Apollo ! monarch of the lyre and bow, 

Slay these sad liars and thus end their woe. 

Oh Snobs ! that ne'er saw tree save in the " Parks," 

Make no more rhythms on the " leaves and larks ;" 



37 



Your only nightingales, with voices sweet, 

Are hungry pigeons, feeding in the street ; 

Cease your " Bucolics " and your " Georgics " now— 

Oh spare your brains, and teach your hands to plow ; 

Or if your feeble arms refuse to toil, 

Stick to the counter, as your native soil, 

And better strive to fill your gaping purse, 

Measure out cloth, but never measure verse. 



This is an age of glorious humbug, sirs ! 
Humbug the idol and the worshippers. 
Humbug goes onward, humbug leads the way, 
And charlatans are monarchs of the day. 
A friend remarked — I thought his judgment sage — 
" That one great dogma of the Present Age, 
Though mind is more than matter, was, we made 
Grown men of boys, and greatest stress we laid 
On minds developed ; let the body live 
But to the brain the strongest muscle give. 
We are like steamships ; if the hulk is poor 
Safety in such a craft were scarcely sure — 



38 

No matter how so great the engine be, 

We cannot trust alone machinery." 

See the pale scholar, doomed in vain to pore 

O'er mystic volumes of forgotten lore — 

Sits in his chamber, while the midnight oil 

Sheds its dim rays upon his ceaseless toil — 

From morn till night his wearied head is bent 

O'er Coke or Blackstone, Littleton or Kent — 

Till chill Consumption seizes on her prey, 

And draws the curtain o'er the student's day. 

The slaves of Science, bent o'er thick-bound tomes, 

Forbid their minds to dream of other homes. 

Yes! this is humbug: vassalage as dark 

As chained the galley-slave unto the bark — 

As bound the Ethiop to Brazilian mines, 

Down where the blessed light of heaven never shines. 

I said we lived by humbug ; so we do — 

You humbug Jack, and Jack must humbug you : 

As wagons rolling over frozen ground, 

The emptiest one sends out the loudest sound. 

Humbug in pleasure, humbug in our labor, 

And each one strives to out-humbug his neighbor. 



39 

False notes are issued both by birds and banks, 
And he that cheateth most the rest outranks ! 
Then let our motto, for it suits us well, 
Be " Vive la humbug !" " Vive la bagatelle !" 

We're a great nation, every land supplies 
The thirsting mart of yankee enterprise — 
In every clime our pilgrim people range, 
And yankee stocks are sold on foreign change ; 
John Bull, to show his forethought and his sense, 
Invests his money in our " six per cents ;" 
But when some State confiscates all his " rocks," 
Poor John, like convicts, may be " stuck in stocks.' 1 
Upon the Boulevards, or Champ de Mars, 
You'll see the subject of the stripes and stars ; 
In every coach, in every railway station, 
You'll find this " universal yankee nation ;" 
Upon the Rhine, beneath Sophia's dome, 
In foggy London, or in classic Rome ; 
Comments upon the actions of the Cid, 
And eats his breakfast on the Pyramid, 
(Oh shade of Cheops ! how your stony box 
Is rapped to pieces by repeated knocks — 



40 

Your " brick-piled monument " no wonder is, 

For where you left your name, John Smith cuts his.) 

Explores all countries, goes in every nook, 

Takes " notes abroad," comes home and writes a book. 

Then we've our travelled folk, that from abroad 

Come back part snob, part cockney, and part lord ; 

Learn how to gamble, dissipate, and dance, 

And sigh to think their country is not France. 

Squander the money that their fathers made, 

To earn the title of a " gay young blade ;" 

Drive their fast horses, talk of dogs and guns, 

Epsom and Derby, and the " quickest runs f 

Think wise men " slow," and hold in high esteem 

The brother rake that drives the fastest " team," 

Trifle with all they might have been, to be 

Poor blazed roues, at scarce twenty-three. 



Now we have vices, ignominies three, 
Falsehood, hypocrisy, and blasphemy. 
We're false in business, false in daily trade, 
False in religion, false to man and maid ; 



41 



False to our neighbor, false in hourly life, 
Falsehood to husband, and falsehood to wife. 
Ah ! we should know that heaven no flattery wins, 
Nor weekly prayers atone for daily sins. 



Take our society ; tell me, can you see 
A greater instance of hypocrisy ? 
We cast away the man of worth and trust, 
For some poor heap of gold-besprinkled dust. 
Then love these empty gewgaws if thou wilt — 
The greatest gold king is not free from gilt 
" All is not gold that glitters," players say — 
An earnest truth, unfolded every day. 
No strange delusion of Platonic school, 
For gilded Fashion sways with leaden rule. 
We're slaves to custom ; who's the maid reviles 
The jocose jest when fair Bellinda smiles; 
When puffs are raging, where's the silly girl 
That twists her ringlets in the spring-like curl ? 
We're slaves to pride — not pride of doing good, 
But pride of money, or' the pride of blood. 



42 



Pride of learning, and pride of birth, 
Pride of being the rich of earth ; 
Pride of beauty, and pride of gold, 
Pride of rolling in wealth untold ; 
Pride of station, and pride of place, 
Pride of springing from kingly race ; 
Pride of churchmen who base their creed 
On lust of power and lust to lead ; 
Pride of saints, that love to trace 
Their path of pride in the market place ; 
Pride of critics, that love to use 
Their stinging lash on the youthful muse ; 
Pride of building a pyramid 
On the glorious deeds your father did. 
The lust of glory, the lust of fame, 
The lust of money, the lust of name, 

Are verily things sought after. 
To hear men boast that they sprung from kings, 
Yet have dwindled down to such little things, 
That fly o'er the earth on golden wings, 

Is surely a theme for laughter. 



43 

But to be honest, but to be true 
To man as you'd have him be to you ; 
But to be faithful in trial and pain, 
Never be servile to money or gain ; 
Kind to the rich, and kind to the poor, 
Staunch thro' all trials you must endure ; 
Tho' you build your house on the solid rock, 
And roof it well against storm and shock, 

Make honesty the rafter ; 
Depend upon it — and ever do 
To man, as man should do to you. 

We're a strange people ! friends, don't think me rash- 

" Wives are for sale here, discount off for cash." 

This is the fault of fashion, and not mine, 

So ecce signum, thus behold the sign ! 

For this, the maid displays her glowing charms, 

Bare necks, bare shoulders, and half naked arms; 

For this, the gardeners cull their choicest flowers. 

To this, we dedicate night's fleeting hours. 

Our morals formed in cabalistic schools, 

Our dress the shallow foppery of fools, 



44 



Our wit perverted, and our taste depraved, 
To custom's foulest tyranny enslaved. 
Born-thralls to Fashion's changing beck and nod, 
Building grand altars to an " unknown god." 
Oh Reason ! once the guardian of Youth, 
Twin-brother born with Honesty and Truth — 
Whose sway the wisest and the weakest owned, 
But now, like Stephen, at the gateway stoned, 
Assert once more dominion o'er mankind ; 
Assert again thy empire in the mind ; 
Bid Fathers teach their offspring to obey 
The nobler law that holds to virtue's way ; 
Let Mothers point to daughters as they grow 
The paths that lead to happiness or woe, 
And bid them tell the unsuspecting maid 
What danger lurks within the " dashing blade ;" 
That homespun often shields a noble heart — 
That broadcloth dress-coats are the tailor's part — 
That Heaven propitious framed a worthy man, 
But a poor fop, why any tailor can ! 
Let the young girl, just budding into life, 
Eschew the belle, to be a worthy wife : 



45 

From simplest follies greatest vices rise — 
In virtue's self man's truest wisdom lies. 
In country towns — 'tis worthy of all praise — 
A law compels the folks " to mend their ways." 
Would that our legislature could find cause 
To place this rule upon our " statute laws !" 
And make it fineable — save one condition — 
That every house have a " revised edition." 
Then every year, on certain stated days, 
Post up a notice, " Good folks, mend your ways !" 

Men make the nations, nations not the men ; 
Dives and Lazarus — as moor and fen, 
Mountain and meadow-land, and brook and river, 
Compose the landscape of a country ever — 
The green oasis and the burning sand, 
Are both components of the desert land. 
Men make the nations, journey where you will, 
In crowded city, or in hamlet still — 
Traverse all lands, examine every State — 
The people make the empire, poor or great. 
When suffering children cry aloud for bread, 
And fathers toil, half naked and half fed ; 



46 

When mothers drain the last drop from the breast, 
Where the half- famished nursling may be prest — 
What recks it then, if in the city's mart, 
We gaze upon each monument of art — 
Emblazoned palaces — or armies drilled 
To war's perfection, and in murder skilled — 
We see beneath, the loathings of disease, 
And hail no more " the monarch of the seas." 
But when we note the cottage white and fair, 
The small home-palace of its master there, 
(That want ne'er empties or affluence fills,) 
Who owns the twenty acres that he tills — 
When busy commerce every need supplies, 
And labor gives the spur to enterprise, 
Thence come great nations — people born to rule, 
Though trained to govern, in a district school. 

One word at parting : I have aimed to show, 

Not want and suffering, not grief and woe ; 

No palsied limb encased in tattered rags, 

That through long years a wearied life-time drags- 

Nor wound one heart, nor add to its despair, 

Nor give to lonely penury one care. 



47 

I would not give one useless pang to him 

Whose heart is heavy, or whose eye is dim. 

I would not mock the bended form of those 

Whose days are drawing slowly to their close, 

But I have striven, vainly it may be, 

To show the worthlessness of vanity ; 

To paint the follies of our age and time, 

And mix a little reason with my rhyme ; 

To point the course to which all things do tend 3 

That we may prosper better in the end ; 

To prove that nothing makes a man but worth, 

Not wealth nor praise, great fortune or high birth ; 

That praise is nothing, glory but a name, 

An ignis fatuus, a delusive flame, 

Luring us onward over marsh and moor, 

Deceptive, fickle, false and insecure. 

Life is a drama, and the Present Age 

Is but a footlight falling on the stage. 

Yet when the curtain droppeth on the last, 

And this the present shall become the past ; 

When the new age the acts of this one reads, 

Some page there'll be recording worthy deeds — 



48 

Deeds writ by angels in the book of time — 
Deeds of kind sympathy, and love sublime — 
Thus each age passing to the by-gone days, 
Writes out its stoiy with its blame and praise. 

Bearing forever to the far-off sea, 

Flowers and weeds, with never-ceasing motion, 
Both fairy flowers and withered weeds are we, 

And Life the stream we sail on to the ocean. 
Take them, oh Time ! thro' all the coming ages 

Myriads shall pass as we have passed before, 
Heroes and poets, kings and mighty sages, 

Sail on thy surface to Death's crowded shore. 

Life is no simple game that children play; 

Its hopes, its joys, its sorrows, and its tears, 
Are heavy footfalls round about our way, 

And marks that note the fleeting course of years. 
Ah ! one by one, the dead go to the tomb, 

Joining the great procession to the grave — 
The Past engulphs within its mighty womb, 

The good, the true, the beautiful, the brave. 



49 



No more ! no more ! oh never more shall I 

Walk with thee often by the grand old ocean, 
Talk with thee there of many a mystery, 

That haunts my spirit with a strange emotion. 
My heart with faith and hope doth wait for thee, 

Towards whom its memory ever fondly turneth ; 
As Mary waiting at the tomb to see 

The risen Christ, for whom her bosom burnetii. 

Yet when the angels at thy earthly prison, 

Shall have rolled back the great stone from the door, 
I shall behold thee with thy God uprisen, 

Freed from the weary load thy spirit wore. 
I shall behold thee — not with tears of sorrow, 

As we too often here below have met — 
But clad with smiles, on that eternal morrow, 

Which shall appear when Life's last sun has set. 

There is no thing on earth but leaves its history, 
The trees and flowers, with shadows on the grass, 

All things in nature, by some unknown mystery, 
Are writing out their stories as they pass. 



50 

The river leaves its tale upon the mountain, 
Nothing returns from us to God unknown ; 

The little drop that trickles from the fountain, 
Chisels its sculpture on the yielding stone. 

It is no ancient philosophic fable ; 

We read our lot by every silent token, 
As Moses' graving on the stony table, 

Time writes out Israel's laws by Godhead spoken. 
And thus to each succeeding generation, 

The ages tell us of those gone before ; 
We learn the world by this self-registration, 

The moral of its being, and no more. 

Beneath the ruined arch and mossy pillar 

That mark great Isis' desolated shrine, 
The turban'd Infidel exclaims, " Bismillah ! 

To prayer ! for God is great, and prayer divine !" 
Her temples now are dust, her priests, their creeds, 

On which they built man's pathway into heaven, 
Their warrior kings, their sages, and their deeds, 

Are gone unto their rest ; we hope forgiven. 



51 



I WOULD FORGET. 



I would forget the false one's art, 
That wins yet wounds the trusting heart. 
The plighted word, the broken vow, 
The fragile reed each wind could bow, 
Detraction's foul and lying tongue, 
The idle songs my boyhood sung ; 
And could oblivion veil the tears 
That stained the page of early years : 
I would forget. 

I would forget, had I the power, 
The clouded day, the one bright hour 
Of pure unsullied happiness, 
That left life darker in distress. 
I would forget them all, and fling 
A curtain over everything, 



52 

For memory, when it seems most fair, 
Is mixed with sorrow everywhere. 
I would forget. 

We are not old, my friend, yet we 
Have seen a world's inconstancy ; 
We are not old, yet, one by one, 
Our friends have fled as storms came on ; 
The ones we sheltered, loved and nurst, 
Have left our hearth-stones, left us first. 
Then, when remembrance turns to gaze 
On the dim page of other days, 
I would forget. 

I would forget that men could prove 
Untrue to friendship or to love ; 
The hollow show of wealth and pride, 
The starving beggar thrust aside, 
The pliant knees that bend to gold, 
Th' unmeaning tale that Flattery told, 
The scornful lip, the haughty tread, 
This idle boasting of the dead ; 
I would forget. 



53 

I must grow old, and as I feel 
Time's lengthening shadows o'er me steal, 
May I, unmoved by earthly fears, 
Pass gently from this vale of tears ; 
And my chained spirit burst control 
In the soft twilight of the soul. 
Much joy was mine, much love, but then 
I would not live my life again. 
I would forget. 



54 



THE GAP OF DUNLOE. 



O ! sweet be the glades of the evergreen isle, 
Its valleys, its heathers, its mountains of snow, 

And blessed be the spot that is hallowed by love, 

Where I spent my young days, by the Gap of Dunloe. 



Yes ! India may boast of her cinnamon groves, 
Her vales where the fairest of flowerets grow ; 

But never a place was so dear to my heart, 

As the home of my birth, by the Gap of Dunloe. 



When I stood on the mount, with my dog by my side, 
And saw the fierce torrent pour rapid below, 

I ne'er will forget the proud thrill of my soul, 
As I gazed with delight down the Gap of Dunloe. 



55 

And oft in the morn, when the sun in the east 
Empurpled the ruins of old " Aghadoe," 

I stole from my home, on the heather away, 
To hear the birds sing by the Gap of Dunloe. 



Above me the rough rocks loomed threat'ning and wild ; 

The vale of " Comme Dhuv" darkened far down below : 
Terrific and grand was the scene I beheld, 

As in wonder I gazed down the Gap of Dunloe. 



All nature seemed gathered in grandeur sublime ; 

Its memories haunt me wherever I go — 
Like the magical spell of some mystical dream, 

That I had in my youth, of the Gap of Dunloe. 



O ! blessed be thy name ! tho' 'tis Freedom's no more, 
And the strength of thy people is fallen and low ; 

There still are stout arms and brave hearts living yet, 
By the steeps of Glena, and the Gap of Dunloe. 



56 



CHARITY. 



There is no good deed but is writ in heaven, 

No word of kindly sympathy outspoken, 
No erring brother, taken home, forgiven, 

But leaves a holy record and a token ; 
Hast thou but little ? give that little gladly, 

For it may cheer some sorrow-stricken creature ; 
May ease the poor heart aching lone and sadly, 

And paint a fresh bloom on each pallid feature. 
God bless the giver ! Christ, thy God, regardeth thee 
God bless the giver ! Christ, the Lord, rewardeth thee. 



57 



" MY HEARTY, NO YOU DON'T." 

When I was poor and needy, 

'Twas not so long ago, 
My clothes looked very seedy, 

And ragged as you know. 
The weeds of care and trouble 

Had in my pathway grown, 
You said, " Fame was a bubble" 

And left me there alone. 

High in my garret story, 

I might have stayed, you see, 
Till I was bent and hoary, 

For all you cared for me. 
Few hearts to me were given, 

With comfort warm and true, 
I lived too near to Heaven 

For common men like yov. 



58 

I then was quite forsaken, 

In those old days of yore, 
And all my feast of Bacon 

Was drawn from books of lore. 
The light of ancient sages 

Was all the light I had, 
And life showed blotted pages 

Of sorrow dark and sad. 

But now I'm somewhat older, 

And broader in the chest — 
I find your once " cold shoulder," 

Too easy to digest. 
Tho' dunned, I wasn't " done for," 

Altho', perhaps, " done brown," 
My conscience was my Ophir, 

And honesty my crown. 

'T was thus my God had formed me, 
Yet blessed with little pelf, 

For all the coke that warmed me 
Was standing on the shelf. 



59 

But now I've caught my bubble, 
Although 'twas said " you won't ;" 

You'll share each joy or trouble ? 
" My hearty, no you donH." 



60 



THE RUINE. 



A crumblynge Ruine, darke and olde, 

With Ivy leaves o'ergrowne, 
Upon whose Sydes, soe dampe and colde, 
The ceaseless Tyde of Tyme hath rolled, 

And marked each fallen Stone, 
Hangs o'er the Cliff, and seemes to telle 
Of long-foughte Seiges, stoute and welle, 
Of Warriors stern, that fightynge felle, 
For Victorie alone. 

Where once there hunge the Chapel-bell, 
That rung a merrie Chime, 

To bid the Maiden leave the Welle, 

The cloistered Monk hys hermit-celle, 
In the dim olden Time ; 

When Bertha met her plyghted Lord, 



61 



And Wine its sparklynge fragrance poured, 
Where Minstreles chaunted round the board, 
Their joyous Lays of Rhyme. 

Where once that Bell, with brazen Tongue, 

Moved sullenlie and slow, 
Dead ! dead ! dead ! dead ! the Tale it rung, 
As to and fro, it ever swung, 

With solemn sounds of Woe, 
Now sits the Owl, with hood so gray, 
The lonely Tenante of Decay, 
Mournynge for those long pass'd awaye, 

Whom Life no more shall know. 

Some unblessed Sprite, this old Owl seems, 

Condemned to Penance long, 
For ever he sits in the pale Moon beams, 
For ever he tells when the Glow-worm gleams, 

His Deed unshrived and wrong. 
Forever he sayeth, " No Rest for me, 
Tu whit! tu whoo ! till the Day shall be, 
When the Angel stands on the Shore and Sea, 

And the World shall pass to Eternitie." 



62 

" The Baron loved hys Daughter fayre, 
And I loved the Maiden, too, 

I loved each Locke of her golden Hayre, 
And each Glance of her Eye, soe blue ; 

I loved her longe, and I sange a songe 
To tell her my Love soe true." 



" But I was poor in Gems and Golde, 
Though ryche in my golden Rhyme, 

The Baron was proude, and the Baron was olde, 
And he laughed at my boyish Chyme, 

But the Ladye she heard my Vow of Love, 
That I plyghted at Christmas Tyme." 



" Now heare my Vow, sweet Ladye, mine, 

I swear by the Holie Lande, 
That had thy Father ten thousand Knyghts, 

To battle at hys Commande, 
No other One but myself alone, 

Should merit my Ladye's Hand." 



63 

" We plyghted our Troth in the Castle halle, 
We plyghted our Love soe true ; 

All Nyghte I dreamed of that golden Hayre, 
All nyghte, of that Eye soe blue, 

And I vowed me a Vow, " No Lorde, I trowe, 
Shall e'er for this Maiden sue." 



" Her Father hearde how a Mynstrel Boy 
Had challenged hys haughtie Myghte, 

And He swore an Oathe, he would turn us bothe 
From the Castle walles that Nyghte ; 

When the curfew tolled, and the Sun went down, 
He kept that Vow aryghte." 



" Our Love, it was stronger than human Love, 

Than mortal Love could be, 
The Hearte, indeed, was an Angel hearte, 

That had plyghted its Love to me ; 
For she dyed that Nighte, in the pale Moon lyghte, 

'Neath the Shade of a Forest tree." 



64 



" I dug her Grave, but her Wrong- was stamped 

In Letters that could not die, 
For the Hate was strong, in my Breast that sprunge, 

And kindled my dreamie Eye ; 
' I'll sing no more, till these Daies are o'er, 

And she is revenged,' quoth I." 



" My Hande is redde with my Brother's blood e, 

My Soul is as dark as Nyghte, 
And alle Dale long I must sing my songe, 

All nyghte, in the pale Moon lyghte; 
Till I wipe the Stain, from my Hand agayne, 

And blotte it from my Syghte." 



And thus the old Owl tells his tale 

Where the bat his lone course wingeth, 

And thus he sighs unto the gale, 
And sighing ever singeth. 



65 



THE OLD GRAY HARPER. 



The belted knight and the baron bold 

Ar.e gone to primeval dust, 
And the silent sepulchre's arms infold 
Their stalwart forms, and the knell hath tolled 
That ushered their souls into centuries old, 

With a fervent faith and trust. 



Their hearts are still in the starless grave, 
And hushed is their anxious beat ; 

They mouldered alike with the serf and the slave, 

The noble, the beautiful, valiant and brave ; 

The arm of the warrior, heart of the knave, 
Are dust at the passers' feet. 



The harp is mute in the festal hall, 

The jovial roundelay ; 
No warriors arm at the warder's call, 
And the owl and the bat hold their carnival 
Where the ivy creeps o'er the cold dark wall, 

With its ruined turret gray. 



A bat flies in and a bat flies out, 

And, sighing, the wind doth moan ; 

It rustles those dark green leaves about ; 

In the place of the revel and wassail rout, 

The troubadour's song, and the merry shout, 
We hear but its voice alone. 



It seems to sigh for the days of old, 

And mourn o'er the years departed, 
As some old harper that, chill and cold, 
Still telleth a tale of the barons bold 
Fierce as the sea, and as uncontrolled, 
The fearless and lion-hearted. 



67 



Now gladly his hand o'er the harp he flings, 

With minstrelsy, rich and golden ! 
Where the yule-log flickered he sitteth and sings ; 
He toucheth his harp, with its unseen strings, 
And bright-wing'd thoughts from the past he brings, 

Dead years, long past and olden. 



The old gray minstrel that dwelleth here, 

Through many long years hath spoken 
Of the lady fair, when the crystal tear 
Hath fallen like jewels, beside the bier 
Of him whom she treasured with hope and fear, 
Lest the chord of her love be broken. 



And still he sitteth, and still he sings, 

With minstrelsy rich and golden ; 
Where the yule-log flickered he sitteth and sings ; 
He toucheth his harp with its unseen strings, 
And bright-wing'd thoughts from the past he brings, 

Dead years, long past and olden. 



63 



YE TWO MANSIONS. 



Ye ryche manne sat in hys elbow chayre, 

As I entered hys parlour dore ; 
Ye costliest tapestrie hung from ye walles, 

And covered ye casement o'er. 
Ye wynde whistled nercelie and wild without, 

But never a whit cared he — 
For a golden lamp on hys table shone, 

And gilt booke on hys knee. 



A servitor trim ystood aneare, 

In the daintiest liverie ; 
Foul shame that a human form solde weare 

Ye badge of its vassalrie, 
Eftsoone at ye touche of a silver bell, 

That lay by hys jewelled hande, 



69 

Ye serving- man at hys master's side, 
Awaited hys lord's commande. 



" Who knocketh soe loude," ye master said, 

" In ye storm, at my palace dore ?" 
Tis onlie a widowe that asketh breade, 

A beggar, and nothing more ! 
Her heart was sad, and ye chrystalle teare 

All adown her pale cheeks ran, 
As she brushed ye locks from her forehead sere, 

And bespoke ye serving-man. 



" I am wearie and colde, and alle alone 

In this great wide world am I ; 
And its — oh ! for ye blessed heaven's love, 

Take pity, or I shalle die !" 
" Begone !" he cryed, " what do ye here, 

That ye hearde not the lord's commande ? 
Have ye prison and workhouse unloosed their dores, 

That vagrants o'er-unne ye lande ?" 



70 

Time passed away, and another Lord 

In another mansion sat, 
And this was an heavenlie palace now, 

But an earthlie hovel, that. 
Bothe ye riche and ye poor at that thresholde stood, 

And knockt at that golden dore ; 
Ye poor came there in their burialle clothes, 

And ye riche had nothing more. 



Ye riche man trembled, ye Master yspake — 

In thunder he spake I wis — 
" Whatsoever ye sow in the fields below, 

Shalle ye surelie reap in this." 



71 



REST. 



There is a stillness in the air, 

The breeze is hushed among the leaves ; 

A golden dream my fancy weaves, 
That seems to whisper, God is there. 



There is a stillness in the night, 
A mystic quiet o'er the sea, 
A mystic quiet over me, 

A mystic quiet in the light 



Of the bright stars, whose myriad rays 
Break on the white sand of the shore ; 
And in that silence I ran o'er 

The pages of departed days. 



72 

There was a sorrow in my breast, 
A brooding something o'er my soul, 
A feeling I could not control ; 

There was a sadness in my rest. 



The earth leemed wrapped in slumber deep, 
'Twas silent even to distress — 
All was so still and motionless ; 

The noisy cricket seemed to sleep. 



I thought of many an aching brain, 
I thought of wanderers tempest-tossed, 
I thought of faces loved and lost, 

The idols of our lives in vain. 



I thought of him whose heart was true, 
I thought of her whose love was pure, 
I thought of souls that seemed secure, 

So like they lived, so like they grew. 



73 

I thought of him whose form had stood 
Unmoved by danger, woe and grief; 
His pain was long, his joy was brief; 

She joined her angel sisterhood. 



I thought of that pale, holy face — 
How like a rose she lived and died, 
At once of Love and Death the bride, 

The nuptial bed her resting-place. 



Bright stars ! if ever on us beams 
From you a single loving eye, 
'Tis not so sad that Man should die, 

Nor are our fancies merely dreams ; 



But something ta'en from earnest faith, 
A faith of love, reward of prayer, 
That when released from toil and care, 

We'll watch our loved ones after death. 
5 



74 



UNREST. 



Sad thoughts were tossing in my breast ; 
" I'll find," I cried, " respite from these, 
I'll battle with my mind's disease, 

And ease me from this wild unrest." 



My heart was worn, but not with woe, 
'Twas bended to my stronger will ; 
I cried unto that heart, " Be still, 

Nor keep that hidden all must know." 



" This demon thought, this dark despair, 
At least I'll conquer ere I die, 
'Tis not in man's divinity, 

To shrink from sorrows he must bear." 



75 

The moon was in the silent sky, 
The stars were shining clear above ; 
I prayed unto the God of Love, 

" Bear gently, Father, or I die." 



I saw the moon rise bright and still, 
Like some dear spirit from the grave ; 
It tinted all the ocean wave, 

And crowned with light the distant hill. 



I drew life's teachings from her rays, 
And said unto my bleeding heart, 
" A part of all God's things thou art, 

A lesson unto future days." 



The stars seemed speaking there to me, 
Upon that cold and chilly night, 
" Within our sorrow there is light, 

And earth is fair, though dark to thee." 



76 

I heard the noise of angels' wings : 
" Within the mount the fire glows, 
Although its top is white with snows." 

Thus nature speaks from tongueless things. 



The spirit cried, " Ye know not all, 
E'en in affliction ye are blessed ; 
Ye know ye weep, God knows the rest, 

And places roses on the pall." 



" He watcheth over everything ; 
The snow that falleth on the grain, 
Though seeming cold, is not in vain, 

But fits the wheat for harvesting. 



" Our mortal sight is short and dim, 
He leaveth nothing here forlorn ; 
He watcheth o'er the lamb that's shorn, 

And tempereth every wind to him." 



77 

My heart no more felt wild unrest, 
I found respite from grief and care ; 
My soul was lighted from despair, 

That night by starry tears was blessed. 



78 



DEATH HATH NO STING. 

We welcome thee, oh Death ! we do not hail 
Thy visage wan and worn, and ghastly pale, 

Nor sad and sere ; 
But we would meet with thee, as one that brings 
A better knowledge of eternal things, 

So hidden here. 
We welcome thee, oh Death ! for we shall reap 
A harvest on the morrow, we shall sleep 

Soundly to-night ; 
Nor toil, nor pain, nor sorrow vex us more ; 
These robes of ours cast off, our wand'rings o'er, 

We wake in light. 

We do not shrink from thee ! as a fair maiden 
Leaps to her lover's arms, with gladness laden, 

We go to thee — 
As a bright maiden with love-longing eyes, 
We gaze above us, and our thoughts arise 

Where we would be. 



79 



There shall we learn the motions of the spheres, 
Our eyes, no longer bleared by briny tears, 

Shall look on God ; 
There we shall learn how rivers rise and flow, 
How flowers bloom and blossom far below, 

Where we have trod. 

We bid thee speed, oh Death ! we look to thee 
As toiling voyagers upon the sea 

Gaze at the stars ; 
And wishing, burning, panting to be free, 
Our wild and throbbing hearts impatiently 

Beat 'gainst their bars. 
Why should we fear thee ? wilt thou not unfold 
Such stores of knowledge as no seer of old, 

Nor sage hath learned ? 
Is not thy coming, if we watch for thee, 
Dearer than earthly messenger can be 

To those that yearned ? 
As old Egyptians left the vacant chair, 
Amid the throng of warm hearts, young and fair, 

From sorrow free ; 



80 

So in our bosoms, though we would not grieve 
O'er frail things, earthly, yet we fain would leave 

That chair for thee. 
When the flushed heart leaps upward to the face, 
E'en in our joy we still would keep that place 

Reserved for thee, 
For thee, oh Death ! that we may know thee well, 
And like a marriage chime the final knell 

That's tolled by thee. 

That we may bide thy coming, and be strong ; 
That we may battle better 'gainst the wrong, 

Without complaint ; 
That we may travel o'er the barren sand, 
The desert of our hopes, unto that land, 

And not grow faint : 
We bid thee speed, oh Death ! we look to thee 
As toiling voyagers upon the sea 

Gaze at the stars ; 
And wishing, burning, panting to be free, 
Our wild and throbbing hearts impatiently 

Beat 'gainst their bars. 



81 



FROM THE ARABIC. 



I saw thee in thy white symar, 

Look from the latticed window high ; 

As o'er the desert shines a star, 

So brightly beamed thy radiant eye ; 

And dazzling from its rosy lid, 

Outvied the gem of Giamschid. 



Unbind the fillet ! let that brow 
Be veiled beneath thy jetty hair, 

Lest I forget thou'rt mortal now, 
And torn enchanted gazer there ; 

Oh ! speaks our holy Prophet truth, 

To shut from heaven such love and vouth ? 



82 

Ah ! banished from thy loved embrace, 
Alas ! estrangement grieves my breast ; 

To gaze alone upon thy face, 

And sigh, but feel no hope of rest. 

Gehenna's night knows brighter hour, 

Than love that lives, yet has no power. 



83 



ANGEL VOICES. 



Soft and silvery fall the moonbeams 
Q'er my wand'ring way to-night, 

Where the little stars above me shed 
Their pale and lambent light, 

And a cloud athwart the heaven hangs, 
Shroud-like, and misty white. 



Thro' the green trees play the zephyrs, 
Making music soft and low, 

As if angel voices uttered, 
Deeply, melancholy low, 

Some unforgotten melody 

Of years long linked with woe. 



84 

Caught I not a note elysian, 
But my Fancy answered back, 

From my breast, o'erwrapt by sorrow, 
On life's trouble-girded track, 

As I stood in doubt and darkness, 
Ever forward, never back. 



Answered to these angel voices : 
" Are ye speaking as the lost, 

From the realms of spirit watchers, 
O'er the tried and tempest tossed ; 

Come ye back ye angel voices, 

From the loved ones and the lost ?" 



" Do the spirits of departed ones 
Still around us linger here, 

Do they come to cheer the weary, 
To dry up the falling tear, 

To dry up the tear-drop falling 
By the grave-side and the bier ? 



85 

" Are the dear dead ones around us ? 

Do they watch us as we weep ? 
Do they smile on all our fortune, 

While we slumber, while we sleep ? 
Do they guard us as we wander 

O'er the desert and the deep ? 



" Does the father, mother, brother, 
Sister, that goes up to heaven, 

Fight with those on earth, who oft with sin 
Do strive as they have striven ? 

Strive with them against the evil one, 
That Angel unforgiven ? 



" Tell me ! tell me ! angel voices, 
While my wearied heart rejoices, 

Raised a moment from its trial, 

Tell me where the hidden source is, 

Of your power, thus felt around us, 
Tell me ! tell me'! angel voices." 



86 



" THERE'S A BREEZE ON THE OCEAN." 



There's a breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

That is sighing just over the sea ; 
Like a voice of sweet music, I love it the more, 

For I fancy it cometh from thee — 
And that breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

Is sighing just over the sea. 



I think of the past and its moments of love, 

When eye looked so fondly to eye, 
As we sat in the bower from hour to hour, 

While the pale moon looked down from the sky : 
We heard the sad note of the lone turtle dove, 

Whose lost lover could never reply — 
I think how I told thee, " time thus may behold me," 

And your answer was only a sigh. 



87 



Now the breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

Is bringing' back mem'ry to me — 
In the silence of night, love, I sigh for it more, 

But it sends me no answer from thee — 
And that breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

Is sighing thus over the sea : 

When the heart of man is lightest, 
And the star of hope is brightest — 
When the thoughts of love are sweetest, 
And the moments seem the fleetest — 
When dear woman's eye is beaming 
With its soft voluptuous dreaming, 
And her fingers gently sweeping 
O'er the lute, set sorrow sleeping 
With its tone. 

Care and joy, and woe and sorrow, 
Each alike will have a morrow ; 
Eye to eye may now be meeting, 
Heart for heart in love be beating — 



Soon will pass these dreams to sadness, 
Gloomy grief and burning madness, 
And be gone. 

Thus the breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

Is sighing just over the sea — 
Like the note of the lone dove, I catch it once more, 

But it brings me no answer from thee — 
And the breeze on the ocean from Araby's shore, 

Is sighing thus over the sea. 



BACCHANTIC. 



Pour red wine in the golden bowl, 

To-night let care be drowned in bliss, 
Methinks Anacreon's burning soul, 

In joy's best hour, might envy this. 
To-night let Grief forget her woes, 

To-night let Sorrow veil her face, 
Let Joy repay the debt she owes, 

And Gladness crown the human race. 
Euoi! lacche! 

Fill high the bowl with ruddy wine, 
There let it gather to the brim, 

Within me glows the spark divine, 
And flickers round its jewell'd rim. 

To-night at least we'll banish strife, 
To-night with roses crown the brow: 



90 

Oh, boon of Love ! oh, human life ! 
I never loved thee more than now. 
Euoi! lacche! 

Let Cadiz boast her black-eyed fair, 

With ruby lips and dancing curls ; 
Let Stamboul praise her maidens rare 

And harems of Circassian girls ; 
Let blue eyes glisten warm and bright, 

To lead their puling slaves astray ; 
Let lovers dream of bliss by night, 

To wake in doubt and fear by day. 
Euoi! lacche! 

Let women grace with orient pearls 

The mazes of their midnight hair, 
We envy not the simple churls 

That find a life's enchantment there, 
Content to gaze where black eyes shine, 

And drink Love's rapture in the soul ; 
We love the bright and sparkling wine, 

And quaff our solace from the bowl. 
Euoi! lacche! 



91 

Drink deep ! for in life's little span 

Alternate joy and sorrow dwell ; 
The gods this blessing gave to man — 

Then strike again the sounding shell. 
Fill high! fill high the golden bowl, 

The subtle tempter lures my sense, 
Hope flashes o'er my waking soul, 

Gods ! never bear the nectar hence ! 
Euoi! Iacche! 



LOVE'S FONDEST VOWS ARE SONG. 



The wild bird woos its mate by song, 

Beneath the forest tree, 
And warbles gaily all day long 

Its sweetest melody. 
And though she answer back no strain, 

In summer time or spring, 
He seeks her in her leafy fane, 

And wooing still will sing. 

In Eden's vale, where endless flowers 

Hung blushing on the stem, 
Through all her song-enchanted bowers, 

Man learned to love from them. 
The birds first taught him how to woo, 

He learned no lesson wrong, 
For when Love's notes are pure and true, 

Its fondest vows are song. 



93 

"GHELL GOHNNUM GHELL."* 

A Turkish Serenade. 

Wake, lady, wake ! the stars above 

Shine out, bright torch-bearers to Love ; 

Wake, lady, wake ! how long shall sleep 

Veil thy soft eyes in slumber deep ? 

The moon is up, o'er copse and dell, 

" Ghell gohnnum ghell ! ghell gohnnum ghell !' 

Wake, lady, wake ! the sun hath dyed 

The broad blue ocean, far and wide ; 

The silver star shines in the sky, 

To glad thy earnest lover's eye ; 

Sweet lamp of Love — 'twill guide us well — 

" Ghell gohnnum ghell ! ghell gohnnum ghell !" 

*Come, love, come! 



94 

Sultana ! from thy window high, 

Shame stars to shadow with thine eye ; 

Bid thy soft voice my doubts remove, 

Zulieka ! fondest child of Love ; 

For thee my breast in hope shall swell, 

" Ghell gohnnum ghell ! ghell gohnnum ghell !" 

I'll bring thee pearls from Persia's sand, 

Fresh flowers from fairy Samarcand, 

Perfumes from Araby the blest ; 

Oh take my heart and give it rest — 

With thee alone my soul must dwell, 

" Ghell gohnnum ghell ! ghell gohnnum ghell !" 



95 



THE DEAR ONES AT HOME. 

I've a little heart at home 

Beating warmly, beating purely, 
That, wherever I may roam, 

Shields me by its love securely ; 
And a gentle voice at home, 

Such as you would wish, my neighbor, 
Greeting me whene'er I come 

From the day's toil and its labor, 

I've a little house, my friend, 

Never vexed with care or strife, 
Save the sorrows that attend 

Every journeying through life. 
All the world's deceit I see, 

Its ambition vain and hollow, 
Well content if ever we 

Our small path of love may follow. 



96 

And a little fire at home, 

Ever warm and ever cheery, 
With a gay and glad welcome 

To the way-worn and the weary. 
But this heart is all mine own ; 

You may share the voice and fire ; 
If the wind blow sad and lone 

We will draw the chair up nigher. 

On the fields may fall the snow, 

'Gainst our window-panes be beating, 
Covering all the plain below, 

Then we'll give you earnest greeting. 
For we praise the One that sendeth 

Blessings on us as we roam, 
And we pray to Him that lendeth 

Peace to the dear ones at home. 



97 



OH! TURN AWAY THAT SAD, PALE FACE. 

Oh! turn away that sad, pale face, 

And hide that brow of care, 
On earth I have no dwelling place 

To shield me from despair ; 
Nor bend on me thy blaming eyes, 

Alas ! I cannot brook 
The tender light that in them lies, 

The sorrow of thy look. 

For beams like theirs are not for me, 

Nor mine their holy fire, 
Unhallowed hearts must only be 

Moved by earth's dark desire. 
So I must live like one forlorn, 

Shut out from hope above ; 
Then speak of hate, reproach, or scorn, 

But do not mention love. 



ONCE MORE WE MEET. 

Fill up ! fill up ! the ruby cup, 

We'll laugh at life's cold, wint'ry weather, 
With joy this hour is brimming up, 

We're here once more, glad friends, together. 
For years have rolled since last we met, 

And Time has changed our smiles to weeping, 
Fond eyes from out our sky have set, 

And warm hearts in the grave are sleeping. 

Young, warm, true hearts ; ah ! one by one 

The links of friendship's chain are breaking, 
And we, that hail to-morrow's sun, 

May sleep, by night, till final waking. 
Fill up ! fill up ! we drink to them 

Who meet us here no more forever, 
The dead, let God alone condemn, 

We'll praise their names, and love them ever. 



99 

Once more we meet ; pledge me to-night 

The full, red cup ; for when we sever, 
With hearts so full of joy and light, 

Perhaps we'll meet no more forever. 
For years have rolled, since last we met, 

And Time has changed our smiles to weeping, 
Fond eyes from out our sky have set, 

And warm hearts in the grave are sleeping. 



100 



FAITH. 



Morn its azure mantle flung, 
Morn o'er Israel's city hung, 
Rising very joyously 
From the waves of Galilee. 
Night departed, night that yieldeth 
Peace to all whom virtue shieldeth ; 
Night the solemn, night that bringeth 
Woe to all whom conscience stingeth ; 
Night that sheds, from lamps so starry, 
Light o'er old trees crooked and gnarry. 



There the beggars, at the gate, 

For the angel's coming wait, 

When from heaven's high throne descending 

Virtue with the water blending, 



101 

He should leave the holy mountain, 
He should move Bethesda's fountain ; 
Still they wait with hope and fear — 
Hark ! the Master draweth near ; 
Cries the beggar, crieth he, 
" Jesus ! Saviour, pity me !" 



Pale with suffering, worn with woe, 
In His travail here below, 
Sad with grief and pain and care, 
Stands the Lord incarnate there — 
" Is no kinsman here to move thee, 
None of all who once did love thee ? 
Poor, accursed, by man forsaken, 
Will no new love for thee waken ? 
Sad indeed thy God hath made thee, 
Beggar ! is there none to aid thee ?" 



" Master ! I alone am left, 
Tired of Life, of Hope bereft, 



102 

Worn with watching, poor and lonely 
I await Death's coming only !" 
" God hath promised aid to all 
Who upon him truly call, 
Who in trouble turn to Him — 
Greater than thy Seraphim — 
Dost thou think He can deceive ?" 
" Christ ! my Saviour, I believe !" 



" Rise, and turn no more to me ! 
Rise, thy Faith rewardeth thee !" 
Worker, in the field of life, 
Warrior, in thine hour of strife, 
Dreamer, in thy day of trial, 
Poet, in thy self-denial, 
Brother, falter not, though here 
Long you wait with hope and fear ; 
Says thy Master, sayeth He, 
" Rise, thy Faith rewardeth thee !" 



103 



PROMETHEUS. 

Hast thou too soared above thy pain ? 

Why, griefs and sorrows such as these 

Are part of human destinies, 
And present woe is future gain. 

Then look into thy bleeding heart, 

And draw a lesson from thy Art. 

Remember, God hath fashioned thee, 

Imaged from His divinity. 

The brute but bows below the blow, 

Man moves triumphant over woe ; 
And from his heart and from his brain, 

Where dwells the Power that soon must break 
The galling thraldom of the chain, 

Shall spring the Will that naught can shake. 

Go tell the Toiler, thou hast borne 

The taunt, the mockery, and the sneer ; 
Go bid him watch thine own career, 

And pass unscathed through human scorn. 



104 

Go bid him move as thou hast moved, 
Go bid him love as thou hast loved. 
'Twere better now to have thy name, 
Than all the witchery of Fame 
That servile souls do bend to seek, 
And Treachery wins from bosoms weak. 
More praise to strive as thou hast striven, 
Than climb by fawning into heaven ; — 
A glory, Hate can never soil, 
King of stern purpose over Toil. 
Go forth ! for deeds like thine must burn 
In human breasts, until they turn 
The coldest hearts to follow thee, 
And emulate thy victory ; — 
That Earth and Heaven may bend to hear 
The story of thy proud career. 

Prometheus ! better live like thee, 
Chained to the cold Caucasian stone, 
Unaided, friendless, and alone, 

Than bend a slave to Tyranny. 

Oh Will ! O godliest, noblest Will ! 
Though bound on Custom's icy rock, 



105 

We know that Thou art living still, 
Daring the gods of human kind, 
In spirit chainless as the mind. 
On Thee shall idly fall the shock, 

The torture, and the agony. 

And living tides shall lave the base 
Around the rocky resting place 

That hinds Thee to Eternity. 
And Thou, Promethean land ! to Thee, 
The hope, the solace of the free. 
Home of my heart ! in might pass on 
Till perfect victory is won ; 

Till kings shall do Thee homage just, 
Till Faction, Thraldom, Serfdom bend, 
Press on undaunted to the end : 
Till myriad eyes shall fire to see 
The hand that, raised for Liberty, 

Shall raise them proudly from the dust. 
7 



106 



COGITATIONES DE TEMPORIBUS. 



The old year's dead — then " peace be to his ashes," 
We'll use the Latin, " requiescat pace," 

For though friend Time has left some bleeding gashes, 
Yet he has shown us scenes quite rich and racy ; 

So we cannot accuse him here of " laches" — 
That's law for negligence — in every place he 

Has sown sorrow, or, out of Fortune's cornua 

Emptied the golden fruit from California. 

The times are hard, the poor are suffering sadly, 
The tattered rags can scarcely- shield their form ; 

The wild wind blows around the house most madly, 
God help the poor in such a driving storm ! 

While we that cluster, with hearts beating gladly, 
Around the yule log, blazing bright and warm, 

May help the poor — ah ! he that dries their weeping, 

But little knows the harvest he'll be reaping. 



107 

Nina was lovely o'er all earth beside, 

As fair as sculptor's finest art could mould ; 

Her eyes were swimming- in a liquid tide, 

And her bright hair seemed like a sea of gold, 

That laved in gentle eddies all the side 
Of the white bosom whereupon it rolled ; 

She was exceeding fair, and very dutiful, 

As one whom prayer to heaven had made most beautiful. 

The trembling beggar never from her door 
Went away empty, or unblessed departed ; 

She saw he needed, and she asked no more, 
But gave in gladness to the broken-hearted. 

The poor all loved her as none loved before, 
For she could dry the tear that sorrow started. 

I fear this episode is detrimental, 

And I must cease this being sentimental. 

We're not the laureate of this precious town, 
And would not be, kind reader, if we could ; 

We have not sat, as the bright sun went down, 
And mused in twilight, over fell and flood ; 



108 

We do not aim at the poetic crown, 

For we esteem too much our townsmen's good. 
Then we would have our readers all to know it^ 
We lay small claim to be ycleped a poet. 

We have commenced this, and we must go through, 
Although our Pegasus is somewhat lazy ; 

We will not do as other rhymers do, 

And make a line about the " mountain daisy," 

But at the Muses' feet will deign to sue, 

E'en though our 'Pat' exclaims, "it's not so aisy." 

So if we make some slight mistakes grammatical, 

Excuse them all, for we must be emphatical. 

" We's " pronoun personal — we talk of self 
Because it suits us, and is somewhat winning ; 

And when some day we're laid upon the shelf, 
To be condemned for much and grievous sinning, 

Our heirs will confiscate our little pelf, 

And think our ending makes their good beginning. 

So we've commenced with self, you have our reason, 

And now we wish you all a merry season. 



109 

Stocks now are down — and money's very " tight," 
The bees of Wall-street make but little honey; 

We do not write because we love to write, 
But use our brains to coin a little money. 

The banks are " caving- in" both left and right, 
The world's grown rotten, though it seems most funny, 

Perhaps we owe it to St. James or Tuilleries — 

We're " stuck in stocks," like convicts in the pillories. 

" Go 'long, old Pegasus, or else Pll sell ye ! 

" Hassan" may buy ye for his " desert mare," 
Or £t ■* * * " may take a notion, now I tell ye, 

To place you in his Fei-erinary care. 
Kind reader, quite an accident befel me, 

Enough to make a half-mad poet swear : 
My horse is blind, and foundered, and believes 
He may grow tardy, for he's got the heaves. 

We can't soar always — sometimes we come down, 
The tendency of everything is " falling" — 

The lots are saleless in the half-made town, 

And " down" 's the word in every tradesman's calling. 



110 

Brokers may literally be called " done brown," 

And ocean's winds are like young babies, squalling ; 
The idler's down on workers and on thinkers, 
And our Maine Law is down upon the drinkers. 

Now apropos of Maine Law — when the sages 

Of old Connecticut in wisdom met, 
To enact laws to aid all future ages, 

And great examples for the world to set — 
That their names might be writ on hist'ry's pages, 

Some sapient Solon did himself forget 
So far as to make this most strange misnomer — 
" He rather thought we did out-homer Homer." 

To write an epic on the Trojan war, 

The father-poem for the rest of songs, 
To win a name that heavenward should soar, 

A name that to the world itself belongs, 
Was nothing to this " prohibition law," 

That should achieve a triumph over wrongs, — 
Empty the prisons, stop the drunken " fuss ;" 
" Parturiunt montes, et nascetur mus." 



Ill 

The world is old, aye very old, 

And months have fled, and years have rolled 

Upon the sands of Time. 
The names of giant men remain, 
Like rocks that rise above the plain ; 
While we, like ships upon the main, 

Drift to and fro — 

Now high, now low — 
Seeking some port where we may be 
Anchored at last, eternally. 
Warriors who fought, warriors who bled, 
Whose deeds unlike the common dead, 
Are consecrate of Rhyme. 

The world is old, aye very old — 
The knell of centuries hath tolled, 

The world hastes to its tomb : 
And one by one the years go by, 
They bud and blossom, bloom and die, — 
Time sees them perish with a sigh. 

Upon the Past 

Our deeds are cast, 



112 

And we shall reap of wheat or tares ; 
Who sows of Folly reaps of Cares, 
Who sows of Tears shall reap of Joys, 
In that far field where naught annoys, 
Nor sadness comes, nor gloom. 

The world is old, aye very old — 

The dead of eld have passed to mould ; 

And from the silent dust 
Rise up the forms of mighty seers, 
And sages, startled from their biers, 
Shake off the slumber of the years, 

And tread once more 

The living shore, 
Whereon the waves incessantly 
Are rolling up, eternally, 
The hidden wonders of the deep, 
The ocean of long years of sleep. 

The world is old, aye very old — 
And all beneath the Master's wold, 
Are passing slowly on. 



113 

Tears for the dead year — tears and sighs 
For unwrought deeds and sympathies, 
The goodness that unfinished lies, 

Is gone, gone, gone — 

We journey on. 
The prayer is read, the requiem said, 
The knell toll'd for the old year dead — 
Lower him slowly to his grave, 
And o'er the sand shall roll the wave, 
To. leave fresh imprint for the next. 

Joy to the New Year — joy and gladness — 
Grief for the old year — grief and sadness : 

With smiles and tears 

We hail the coming and out-going years. 



114 



MEMORIES. 



I have wandered o'er the desert, I have wandered o'er the 

deep ; 
I have climbed the rocky hill and have scaled the rugged 

steep ; 
I have seen beneath me blooming lands of corn and fruit- 
ful vines, 
Looking on them from the mountain bristling rough with 

giant pines ; 
I have seen the eagle soaring sunward higher still and 

higher ; 
Heard the thunder roll as organ notes of heaven's mighty 

choir — 
Sounding in the resonant chorus louder still that thunder 

rose, 
While the great Alps loomed above me white-crowned 

with eternal snows. 



115 

Grandly there that song resounding, as the voice of war- 
riors brave, 

Round the aisles' basaltic columns, fretted arch and archi- 
trave. 

Storms to me were mighty teachers ; from the lightning, 
and the cloud 

Hanging o'er me ever, ever as some giant spirit's shroud, 

I received celestial lessons of my weakness and God's 
strength, 

Of the Maker's holy benison, its latitude and length ; 

Stood in silence gazing upward, where no human voice 
was heard, 

And no sound save when the wailing wind the thick- 
leaved ivy stirred ; 

Watched the stars as twilight darkened take their stations 
one by one, 

Ceaseless sentinels in heaven circling ever round the 
sun; 

Felt my heart lulled into slumber, even I, though pas- 
sion's slave, 

Have looked up at midnight seeing past the dark and 
dismal grave, 



116 

Have looked up with eye of seer, gazing into regions 
vast, 

Till the future grew a mighty scroll unfolded as the 
past. 

I have stood beside the desert 'neath the groves of leafy- 
palms, 

Asking Faith and Hope of heaven, as a beggar asketh 
alms. 

Faith and Trust have made men martyrs — kings of pur- 
pose over death, 

Looking out into the midnight at the star of Nazareth ; 

Faith and Trust is human greatness, labor, never-yielding 
will, 

Maketh serfs and toiling bondsmen of each trial and 
each ill. 

Victory solely is not virtue, 'round the fallen Ithuriel 

Glory shines though chained and vanquished in the low- 
est depths of hell. 

Gods ! we're cringing slaves to Passion, demon- worship- 
pers of sense, 

And our Souls like pliant minions serve with vassalry 
intense ; 



117 

We should rouse from this, my brothers, we should battle 

long and well, 
Till with Truth's grand diapason every human heart shall 

swell, 
Sent to the o'er-arching heaven, cheering men in future 

days, 
As victorious legions ever to the God of Battles raise. 
Bat though deserts, rocks, and caverns fill the soul with 

longings grand, 
Though we stand with faith and fervor in the far-off Holy 

Land ; 
Though we climb the hill the Master trod, our burning 

foreheads cool 
In water from the sacred spring that feeds Bethesda's 

pool ; 
Through the dark vale of Jehoshaphat our wandering 

steps may tread, 
We look up and see the blue sky arching gloriously 

o'erhead, 
Yet there's nothing thrills through earnest souls with such 

a true emotion, 
As the tale of one that perisheth a martyr in devotion — 



118 

Whate'er his creed, whate'er his faith — he still hath 

strength and power 
To battle with the Evil One in trouble's trying hour — 
To battle with the fiends that tempt, to conquer and to be 
Enrolled among the ones that died oh! Liberty, for thee. 



119 



EPILOGUE. 



As some tired wanderer in his midnight dreams 

Hears round his couch his children's well known voices, 
And clasps each unreal form to him, that seems 

So like reality that he rejoices : 
As round him comes the vision of his home, 

The brook, the meadow, and the bubbling fountain, 
The distant hill that rears its dusky dome 

Far up towards heaven, the old rock-sided mountain — 
Beyond, the forest trees lift up their heads 

With gnarry trunks, and branches crooked and olden, 
Far o'er the plain their welcome shadow spreads, 

With rays of yellow light so rich and golden ; 
And when the pale stars, in the midnight sky, 

Cast on the earth their twilight faint and tremulous, 
Jewelling the curtains that above us lie, 

As if, of day they grew exceeding emulous : — 



120 

Ah ! then he sees, reflected back to him, 

Those well-remembered and the upturned faces, 
Through the blank night, and through the twilight dim, 

They take once more their long-accustomed places. 
So do I hear these prattlers of my brain, 

The chambers of my dreamy soul indwelling, 
And gladly press them to my breast again 

With rapture, such as lies beyond my telling. 
To you, oh friends ! that wander forth with me 

Beyond the confines of the fleeting Present, 
Lifting the curtains up that we may see 

Some faint glimpse of a Future sweet and pleasant — 
To me the Past is but as printed lines 

Graved by the hand of Time upon Eternity, 
Where each that reads this epigraph divines 

" The world is old with years and much infirmity." 
To you, my friends ! if with me you have stood 

And watched the beatings of your hearts observantly, 
When flushed they throbbed with aspirations good, 

Or, worn with grief, prayed unto heaven fervently ; 
If on your brows the course of Life's decay 

Has left its traces and the shadows lengthen, 



121 

Perhaps some word of mine may cheer your way, 

Mayhap the faltering soul awhile shall strengthen ; 
But if in freshness of Life's early youth, 

Like wild field blossoms in the dawn of morning, 
One line that's writ in soberness and truth, 

One word of hope, one pleasant one of warning : 
To you the burden of the day shall come, 

The strife, the struggle, and stern self-denial, 
The loss of friends that leave you here to roam 

Lonely and sad in many an hour of trial. 
What though we struggle on through years unknown, 

Eating the bitter bread of long obscurity ; 
What though our sorrows must be ours alone, 

And we forbid to feast upon Futurity : 
Are there not souls united to our own, 

And hearts that beat in unison forever, 
And harps that give no music, save when lone 

And sad the wind blows o'er them, waking never 
When summer breezes them to gladness move, 

That when the skies are fair send forth no tune 
Or sound of joyous harmony and love, 

Thrive in December, but must die in June ! 



122 

Our great grief cometh as the night comes on, 

Casting its shadows silently and lonely — 
In life's dark night are truest brothers born 

Not of the blood, but of the spirit only. 
To You these lines are sent, to You they bring 

A poet's sympathy with high endeavor, 
A song that alway I have loved to sing, 

With harp attuned, though not in sweetness ever. 
Yet if this brain shall e'er have forged a thought, 

Which, like a buckler, may defend you here, 
Mine own sad lessons were not dearly bought, 

Nor have mine eyes distilled one idle tear. 
If ever we shall meet by hap again, 

Which may not -be, save in the great Futurity, 
We will think only that earth holds a pain 

To nurse man's spirit better to maturity. 



NOTES. 



Page 9—" The Present Age.'''' 
This poem was delivered before the Young Men's Institute of New Ha- 
ven, etc. I endeavored rather to take a cursory glance at the manners 
of the present day, than to enter into a line of argument upon the destiny 
of it. TVe are probably in no worse plight than the generations that have 
gone before us. Our men are as noble, our women as lovely, and our 
manners as pure as theirs; but, nevertheless, there are many errors prev- 
alent amongst us, which I would see corrected : of them I have spoken. 
I dedicated it to my friend John G. Saxe, Esq., to whom I can pay no 
better tribute than that which Barry Cornwall paid to an English poet — 
" a fine natural eloquence which a warm heart taught him, and which he 
poured out so profusely in song." 



Page 33 — Lest; 21 — " And thou, my friend." 
Abner Benedict, Esq. of New York, to whom I am indebted for many 
acts of personal friendship. He was lost in the "Arctic." Et nunc ser- 
vat honos sedem tuus. 



Page 37 — Line 13 — " A friend remarked." 
A gentleman once remarked to me, in a conversation upon the present 
system of education, " that too much attention was paid to an intense 
mental development, while the poor bo_dy was neglected as a mere super- 
numerary, and that thus the mind grew up to stalks bearing but little 
fruit." Irriguo nihil est elutius horto. There is no doubt that here in 
America we hurry matters over much, and that boys become paragons of 



124 



precocious learning before they have fairly thrown off their jackets. We 
hear of young men graduating from college at seventeen or eighteen, hut 
seldom see any that can write even moderate Latin, or passably intelligi- 
ble Greek. I do not however disparage our seats of learning, but honor 
them, and would have them inferior to none. At least they have it in 
their power to become so. 



Page 86—" There'' s a breeze on the ocean." 
My old friends of the San Jacinto no doubt remember the pleasant days 
we passed together over the blue waves of the Mediterranean, (a most 
outrageous sea in rough weather, ) or along the banks of that ancient and 
venerable Fogy, Father Nile. If this little volume shall fall into the 
hands of any one of them, he will dwell, as I do, upon the Past, with no 
shade of sorrow. I sincerely hope that we may all meet again under no 
worse auspices, or in a no more disagreeable country ; facile descensus 
Averni. 



Wis 



-^'J^SV ^ 



'*. *> <y » * „ ^ ^ ^ • » ° 




* ^ 



^\ 




J' ^ 



5 










■fev 

*p^ 



*0* 









A ^ 



V* 




*<$> * O u o ° AT 






v 













. V » i V 



°* *iV.'* aP 



■* n9 



Jp^. 



'm 










* O 




<* 






? .*1^:* *> 



<J> "r.0" H 



> V ... 




4* 



*> 



*0 - 4 * 



■ t "* ^ 

^ 







•A ^ 








Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
*£. Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 
vr* 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



■""■^ 







iq. 






** * * 



*. *.*•' .« v 






X 









*^ 
















^ : 



• a><^ 




<* *•« 













°o. *??rsjp 













'■-.,-. 






7 • * V, V 



vv 











• / 






^T' A 







